


A Time to Mourn

by enigmaticblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-07
Updated: 2011-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:37:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has to take a second look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Time to Mourn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hc_bingo prompt "mistaken identity." Spoilers for 7.02.

Dean’s halfway across the crowded bar before he realizes his eyes are tricking him.

 

He’s no stranger to grief, of course. After his dad had died, Dean had taken a second look at a few tall, dark-haired men who looked like his dad at first glance. Oddly enough, losing Sam to the Cage had been easier; Sasquatch that he was— _is_ —there aren’t many who remind Dean of his brother.

 

But Cas—

 

Well, Cas had popped up without warning all the time; it’s easy to see him in every dark-haired stranger who has the right build, or wears the right clothes, or has just the right profile.

 

Tonight, Dean thinks he can be excused the momentary lapse. From the doorway of the bar, all Dean can see is the tan trench coat, the slumped shoulders, the messy brown hair. It _could_ be Cas so easily that Dean’s only a few feet away when he remembers that Cas is _dead_.

 

The grief hits him all over again, leaving him gasping and raw.

 

But he’s nearly at the bar now, and he’s morbidly curious, so he slides onto the stool one over from Cas’ look-alike. Dean doesn’t immediately focus on his face, but the stranger is wearing a red tie, not a blue one, and that’s a relief.

 

Dean orders a beer and pays, and he tries not to glance at his neighbor. At least, Dean tries not to look at him so that he notices.

 

He fucks that up just like he’s fucked up everything else, though, because the stranger asks defensively, “What?”

 

Dean lets himself really _look_ at the guy’s face then, and he sees that the profile is all wrong. His face has a different shape than Cas’ vessel—longer nose, thinner lips. And his eyes are a muddy hazel, thank God.

 

If his eyes had been blue, Dean isn’t sure what he would have done.

 

“Sorry,” Dean says, when the silence has stretched too long. The guy probably thinks Dean is a whack job—and he wouldn’t be wrong.  “I’m sorry. It’s just—you remind me of someone I used to know.”

 

The stranger raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, keeping his eyes on the guy’s face. “It’s the trench coat.”

 

“It was a gift from my wife,” the man replies.

 

Dean has no idea what to do with that information. Maybe Jimmy’s wife had given _him_ a trench coat, the one he’d been wearing when he said yes. Not that it matters, since that coat is stuffed in a corner of Dean’s trunk.

 

Finally, Dean says, “You don’t want to know any of this.”

 

He’s come to the bar to get away from his brother, and Sam’s inability to tell hallucination from reality. And from Bobby, who probably knows more about Dean’s mental state than _Dean_ does. Dean just wants to forget, and now he’s faced with a guy who looks like he could be Cas’ duplicate if Dean squints.

 

Well, if Dean doesn’t look into his eyes. Dean still remembers how blue Cas’ eyes were. Jimmy’s eyes. Hell.

 

The stranger, instead of turning away, waves the barkeep over and says, “I’ll take the bottle for me and my friend here.”

 

The bartender puts a bottle of bourbon and a couple of glasses down in front of the stranger, and Dean shifts over a seat mostly to be polite. “Thanks,” he says.

 

“I’m guessing your friend isn’t around anymore,” the stranger observes.

 

Dean shakes his head, and takes a sip of bourbon, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “No. He, uh, he died a couple of months ago.”

 

Every time Dean says the words out loud, which he tries not to do if he can help it, he expects Cas to appear out of thin air and tell Dean that it’s all a mistake, a trick, that he’s still around.

 

Instead, all Dean has is a stranger’s sympathetic gaze. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Dean says roughly, and takes another sip of bourbon. “What’s your story?” he asks, needing to get the focus off himself.

 

The stranger’s lips twist into a bitter smile. “I think my wife is cheating on me.”

 

“Ouch,” Dean replies. “Any proof?”

 

“No,” the stranger says shortly. “Which is part of the problem, and a large part of the reason I’m sitting at a bar, getting drunk.”

 

Dean doesn’t know quite what to say to that, so he lets the man pour him another drink and murmurs his thanks.

 

It’s pretty clear to Dean that the stranger wants to talk about his problems about as much as Dean does, and they just sit quietly for a while.

 

Dean finishes his drink and throws down a $20 for his share of the bottle. He’s starting to feel a little guilty for leaving Sam alone for so long. “Thanks for the drink,” he says quietly. “I hope things work out for you and your wife.”

 

The stranger nods, his eyes slightly unfocused from the alcohol. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Dean says quietly, remembering the trench coat in his trunk, thinking _we’re all so fucking sorry_.


End file.
